I raised my hand before I realized it was too late to change my mind.
The lecture hall was already hot that Wednesday afternoon, the kind of afternoon heat that sticks to your back, making you feel very uncomfortable, and everything you're thinking about feels like work. The auditorium ceiling fans were spinning lazily above, as if they were tired of doing their duty. It complained more about noise than it helped reduce the heat. It was the second semester, and the seats were packed with students who had perfected the art of appearing to understand everything.
I watched as pens moved side to side. Heads nodded. Nobody spoke.
Except me. I was struggling to understand what the lecturer said last. Hoping that someone would ask but when no one did. I raised my hands
“Sir,” I said, my voice thinner than I expected, “please… Can you explain that part again?”
The room shifted. Not literally, but a few coughs here and there. Silent whispers and chairs scraping. Then it turned to laughter. I was surprised, like I had cracked a joke without warning anyone. Row to row. It spread so fast like COVID.
I heard someone behind me mutter, “Is she serious?”
I tried to pull my hand back into my body. But it was too late.
I looked at the lecturer. He was known for being harsh. But somehow that day, he just adjusted his glasses and looked at me for a long second. His face held no laughter, only mild curiosity, like I was lost on a lonely road and had asked for directions.
He cleared his throat to signal silence, and calmly, he repeated the explanation slowly, his chalk scratching the board, writing out numbers that lined up neatly with each other. I listened attentively this time and nodded in accordance as he spoke, not because I finally understood everything, but because I needed my head to do something to pretend I understood this time. I didn't want to be laughed at again.
When he finished, the class went quiet again. The laughter faded. Pens returned to paper. Life moved on. Apart from me, I got home and tackled that equation till I got a good understanding of it
I was a young twenty-one-year-old girl then. Naive enough to believe embarrassment was permanent. Scared enough to think one moment could brand me forever in that school.
I spent the rest of that semester avoiding questions and pretending like I understood it all. Whenever questions rose in my throat, I made sure they died there. I preferred to browse about it later than ask in class. I understood that silence could look like intelligence if you wear it well
Eight years later, I had graduated. Lagos had welcomed me into its arms. I was twenty-nine now, standing inside a bank on Victoria Island, clutching a small notebook like it was a life jacket. It was my first day on the job. My new shoes were clacking on the floor. Hair pulled back too tightly into a ponytail. My name badge is still too clean and shining brightly on my chest.
The banking hall smelled of air freshener and a lot of mental stress. I watched customers lining up and complaining. Computer keyboards are clacking loudly. Cash is being exchanged. Phones are ringing without rest. My supervisor had walked me through the procedures earlier not minding if I had understood it all. I nodded a lot. Don't blame me, it was old habits that refused to die.
“You know you're going to close the account before leaving right? My colleague asked, sliding a file across the desk. “High-value. Sensitive. Just follow protocol like your supervisor taught you..”
My heart kicked hard in my chest. I nodded.
I waited till it was over before I opened the file. Forms stared back at me. Signatures. Dates. One small detail caught my eye, quiet but wrong. The kind of thing people skip because it looks harmless. But this time it looked familiar to me. I had seen it before.
Slowly the memories started sipping in. Memory of a hot lecture hall and laughter bouncing off concrete walls. I smiled.
I got up and walked to my supervisor's office. Luckily she was just about to leave her office.
“Ma,” I said, carefully, “can I ask something?”
She turned. “Oh, Zerah. Yes, go on, I'm about to leave?”
I opened the file to the exact spot. “If the account holder’s mandate was updated after this date,” I said, tapping the paper, “do we still proceed with this closure, or does it require a secondary verification?”
There was silence.
I watched as my supervisor leaned in closer. Slightly, her mouth opened, and she took the file from me as if she couldn't see it clearly. Then, she flipped through it again. Her brow creased. She squinted. Then she smiled, slow and genuine as she looked up to me.
“Good catch,” she said. “Very good catch. If we had gone ahead, it would’ve been a problem.”
She handed the file back. “Correct it. Please, always ask,” she added. “Even if it sounds basic.” then she walked off
Something loosened inside me.
For the rest of the day, I worked happily. A question I asked at twenty-one and felt foolish about was not foolish at all. I had let the laughter lie to me and instill fear. Time just told the truth.
Now if I had the chance to speak to that younger version of myself. That naive girl sweating in a crowded hall, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell her to be confident or fearless. I’d tell her something simpler.
'Ask anyway'.
Even if they would laugh and make you shake. Even if you look like a fool. Maybe that was the fool I needed to be just so I could become what I am today.
(Image Source)[https://pixabay.com/images/download/x-3986809_1920.jpg].
